I wonder how many sailors feel jilted after a storm.

It's awful and you don't think you'll make it,
gasping through torrents.

Devastation breathing deliberately into your face,
And you look into its mouth,
each of you with the same broken, apathetic submission.

Each hugging hard, unresponsive surfaces
tight, with both arms

But it withdraws.

And, surprised that it took no one from the vessel,
relief resonates and you collectively exhale.

Your heart, bones, blood can rest for a moment,
before the mind begins its work.

But it doesn't take long.

Who faired the worst?
Who held on tightest?
Who drove the boat into the storm?
Who almost let go?
Who saved whom?
Who cried loudest?

We forget what we've beaten.

It's almost as though the contrast
of calm, safety, ease
is too grating
after leaning against the wet teeth of obliteration
preparing for the after.

The burden of cessation pulsed through you equally
as you squinted through wet salt to your end.

But the hungry eyes and ears of the port
make us aware.

And the fear that someone else's account
will leave you out
or show you weak,
or base

It drives us to snip for validation like scraps
to a pack of starving dogs.

Ourselves succeeding
where the capable beast paused.